


Enough

by ghee (sabakunoghee)



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Apologies, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Reconciliation Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23063911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabakunoghee/pseuds/ghee
Summary: “If you really want to do it,” Schofield finally spoke, “Do it with me.”or,Basically a love confession. In the harshest way possible.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 68





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> SORRY? IDK? Self-indulgent? Un-betaed? You know; those things. Cheesy, perhaps. In the end, Schofield is just a confused queer. But Blake is irresistible. The end.

“Sco, what do you think about—”

Thomas Blake didn’t finish his sentence and it made William Schofield eye him in confusion. They were enjoying an extremely rare chance to sleep in an inn, and having a debate would be the last on Schofield’s list he’d love to do. He didn’t dispute just yet. Too mentally drained to start an argument.

The platoon had marched long enough until they reached a small town somewhere in French and they provided the infantrymen a proper place to stay – including a warm bath, which was a luxury for them who had depended their sanitary needs on nearby rivers. A decent meal was also provided. They finally could relax a little, regaining their endurance, pampering themselves with _real_ coffee and hot curd soup. A room could accommodate up to four people – _the privates had to share until its maximum capacity, but none of them argued_ – but thanks to their rank, those Lance Corporals had this ‘privilege’ to occupy a space for two, treasuring this opportunity to rest before advancing to the front line.

Or at least that what Schofield had in his head.

“About what?” he finally replied.

Blake’s unusual silence disturbed Schofield. The younger man was sitting nervously on a stool, his eyes uneasily stole glances. Schofield was discarding his tin helmet, vest, and half-faced balaclava, almost tossing aside his boots and went straight to bed but Blake’s fidgety gestures drew his attention.

“…uh, never mind,” he grinned awkwardly, “You’re going to sleep, yeah?”

Schofield raised an eyebrow, “What are you planning to do while I’m asleep?”

Sometimes, he simply _hated_ how observant Schofield was, “You’re going to judge me.”

“Depends,” the older one replied, “As long as you’re not committing any misdemeanors, I guess.”

“To prevent it happening in the future, I guess I have to do it now,” Blake was joking, but there was _something_ heavy beneath his voice tone. Rather than his usual twinkling eyes and a beaming smile, Schofield saw the flame in his facial expression – “I’m… Going outside for like, a couple of hours, don’t lock the door, please?” he pleaded with sweet vocal, palms met in front of his chest, “I’ll bring you food.”

“Outside,” Schofield reiterated, “You’re going to have a drink with the boys?”

“Sort of,” a bit jittery, yet Blake still managed to act nonchalant.

“And?”

“And – what?”

Schofield didn’t like the way Blake lost his focus while talking to him, “Sex?”

One word. Powerful enough to send Blake an imaginary jab, straight to the gut.

Blake was a good story-teller, but nowhere excellent in telling lies. He gulped hard while maintaining eye contact with Schofield who wasn’t happy when he nodded. Blake could see the drastic change on his comrade’s exterior – how the wrinkles formed on his forehead, how his lips twitched in displeasure, how the nerves on his temple became visible. Schofield opened his mouth, about to say something but he didn’t continue. He stood up from the edge of his bed, unbuttoning his tunic, and left him in a short-sleeved undergarment. When he turned around, Blake, reflexively, avoided his eyes.

“Who are you planning to have sex with?”

Perhaps it was him being exhausted from the war and all – they had been wayfaring for _weeks_ , being in such extreme condition could do that to a person – but Blake _swore_ he captured a hint of jealousy in Schofield’s baritone. He casually shrugged, “I have plenty of bobs to trade for a night.”

“Don’t you?” Schofield retorted.

“What are you implying?” this time, Blake’s voice went higher.

“You’re going to spend money on a woman?”

“Said a guy who swaps a badge for a bottle of wine.”

Schofield groaned, “Your wallet is empty, I _knew_ it,” he spelled every word, unconsciously put slight pressure on it, “Blake, you’re not going to conduct mistreatment of civilians. Rape is a war crime.”

“Jesus, Sco!” Blake snapped, “Do you think I’m going to sink that low? That this bloody war corrupts me as much as – _God_ , fuck you’re thinking about me, that I’m a wild animal?” he hastily stood up, accidentally kicked his water canteen and webbing in the process, which he didn’t care enough.

“Seducing them to get on your arse, then?” Schofield snorted, “We’re not playing _war_ , here. We’re supposed to _protect_ them,” he almost stated the risk of pregnancy, but his mouth was too numb for that, “We’re here for a reason, Blake,” if only he could say the _real_ reason behind his coward excuses.

If you asked him, Blake wanted to punch his mate right in his face; he already clenched his fist, in fact, “Sco, I don’t know what’s your problem, but I _this,_ I got to release, okay?” and to verbally argue about this is outrageous, Blake thought. They were men, they had _needs_ , being nineteen and being trapped in warfare was a torture for him and his flaring hormones, “It’s not like I exclusively need a _woman_ to do that,” he murmured from the depth of his throat, crossing his hands in front of his torso.

“You’re – _what_?”

“What, you’re disgusted?”

Schofield froze at the sudden confidence Blake gained right after blurting out such truth.

He wasn’t offended by the idea, nor the act of doing sexual activities with a _man_. He had been serving for almost three years and he was sure he’d seen pretty much _everything_. The wounded, the corpses, the survivors, including how a bizarre connection grew amidst the brutality and hopelessness. Some men drained themselves from excessive training, some preferred socializing, and plenty of them by – _seeking_ warmth from a fellow fighter. Stealing kisses, hugs, even spontaneous touches when they gathered, circling the campfire. Schofield was, _damn_ , it wasn’t _him_ for not being able to think clearly.

Blake was _one_ of the latter?

Schofield recalled things. _Many_. Somme which tarnished his empathy taught him that their souls were merely pawns and their bodies were nothing more than puppets. He almost gave up being a human – until he was introduced with Blake; a fresh face with eyes as bright as the sky and smile as radiant as the sun. Blake was innocent, pure, trailing behind him like a puppy, curious and energetic.

He was young. So very young, he didn’t deserve all of these nightmares.

“Have you done it?”

The dire silence was broken by Schofield’s dangerous hum. Blake squinted, “I’m sorry, what?”

“With our friends,” his blue eyes were darker, pierced into Blake’s chest, “You’ve done it?”

“Why would you care?”

Schofield scoffed, “Because at least half of them will transmit their disease to your private.”

Blake gasped. He tried to appear unbothered but the way he set his hitched breath free was already a solid answer. As he masked his bitter defeat with a cough, Blake asked, “How- how could you know?”

“You’re the one who’s a social butterfly here, how could you _not_ know?”

Once again, he felt attacked. Blake stared bewilderedly, “You’re pretending to sleep, were you?”

Schofield didn’t understand how a man could be _this_ gullible, if not ignorant. He was playing all distant, it was true, but he kept his eyes on every person around him. Blake might be the loud one and had at least one acquaintance from every brigade, but Schofield loved to keep his both friends and enemies close – including their (nasty) habits and dirty secrets, “I won’t sleep with any of them if I were you.”

“So you’re not sickened by the idea of – me being _not_ normal?”

What is _normal_ , after all, Schofield thought.

Was it normal if he felt these silly thumps of his heart when he saw Blake for the first time? Was it not? So, killing each other in the name of the country _was_ considered ‘normal’ and being infatuated in a man wasn’t? Schofield couldn’t answer. He didn’t have any right to. And it wasn’t like – he never asked if he was fine being _one_ , he didn’t find the necessity to question, nor to prove, not to anyone.

But this time was… _different_. Blake was different. The way he treated Blake, how their friendship went, everything about him was different. Schofield knew he had to choose. To make _Blake_ finally choose.

Blake stayed alert when Schofield made a move. He walked toward him - _past_ him, rotated the key to completely lock their bedroom. Blake stepped backward in panic (even though he's stupid pride didn’t let him show it,) when his comrade turned around and approached him. Schofield was calm, content, his pace of feet was undoubtedly bold, and his certainty grew unlimited question marks in Blake’s mind. Suddenly, his adeptness as an army vanished into ashes; the wall behind him was a dead-end, his rifle or knife or whatever he could use as a weapon were out of his range. _Shit_ , he never thought he _had to_ fight Schofield – one of the most skilled combatants of the 8th, he would surely die.

Schofield was only a foot away in front of him. Blake could’ve kicked his groin or landed a hook on his jawbones – but strength and fortitude abandoned him, left him nothing but shaky legs. He could feel the air around them was getting heavier with menacing aura, as Schofield grabbed him by his chin.

One hand gripping his face, another one leaned against the wall behind him.

Schofield held him there,

When he studied him this close, Schofield realized that Blake was unquestionably _beautiful_. He wasn’t pretty like a woman, nor as masculine as most men, just – captivating. His doe eyes, his rosy cheeks, his plump lips, his curly hair. Not even the boot camp and actual war could wither those baby fat.

“If you really want to do _it_ ,” Schofield finally spoke, “Do it with _me_.”

Blake blinked in amazement, “…are you being bloody serious?”

“Do I look like I’m fooling around?” Schofield’s breath was warm on his ear, diminishing the distance between their faces – he just invaded the border the intimacy by rubbing the tip of his nose along the crook of Blake’s neck, “It doesn’t matter for you, anyway, right? Any man will do?” baritone was husky, demanding, “Then I’ll be your best choice for I never touched anyone since I volunteered, _here_.”

Schofield’s husky voice was alluring and all, not to mention the seduction which almost reached his collarbone, but his sanity was still (barely) there, “Wait – _wait,_ ” Blake despised himself for a soft moan escaped his lips when the taller man pressed his body onto him, hands forcefully positioned above his head, both were tightly gripped and by he meant ‘tightly’, Blake was sure Schofield’s grasp on him would leave bruises. _No_ – it wasn’t the time, this wasn’t what he wanted. Blake struggled to free himself by attempting a kick, but hell, Schofield’s lower body was as well-trained as the rest of him. His knees restrained Blake’s resistance quite effortlessly – the absence of proximity resulted in their hips met in a heated, violent tussle. Blake _hated_ how every bit of this conflict-affected his erection,

But _this_ wasn’t right. Not anything about this was close to right. Blake had to fight back, despite how lascivious Schofield’s touches were, the consent was off and he psychologically refused to be treated this way. He saw the opportunity when Schofield shoved his lips, forcibly made their way on Blake’s—

“!”

Schofield retreated when he felt _iron_ on his tongue.

Blake just _bit_ his lips until it was bleeding. When he was stunned, analyzing the whole situation, Blake banged his forehead. A sharp pain was spreading from the bridge of his nose to the crown of his head.

The twinge, however, didn’t make Schofield flinch, made Blake wondered what kind of monster he was facing right now – but he couldn’t let himself look pathetic, so he glared back angrily, “What the _fucking_ hell you think you’re doing!” he yelled when Schofield stopped his aggression, even though his hands were still in Schofield’s possession. Blake was afraid – _of course, he was_ – but he concealed it perfectly, masked it with boiling anger, _humiliated_ , “Just because I _prefer_ man, you think it’ll fine for you treating me like this? You know what, Sco?” Blake spat blood on Schofield’s face, “Fuck you.”

His head ached. But it was nowhere as painful as the way Blake stared at him.

There was… hatred. Broken trust. Schofield just betrayed their friendship, their bond, he realized it as he found _fear_ in Blake’s eyes. He let jealousy controlled him and he failed as a soldier – _no,_ he failed as a human being for assaulting Blake, both verbally and sexually against him, without his concession.

Tears welled up in his bright, blue eyes, threatened to fall. But Blake’s face stiffened, as hard as a rock, even when he let them stream down his reddened cheeks. Schofield knew it wasn’t tears of sadness; he was shocked, _disgraced_. He opened his mouth to apologize, but nothing came out, only his lips and tongue trembling by the bitterness of guilt and wound. Fortitude left him and never had he ever felt this much powerless, futile, and he watched in hollowness how Blake silently freed himself. But he didn’t pull back; he was standing there, eyes still wet but he gazed at him – concerned, perturbed, _waiting_.

“M’ sorry,”

Schofield’s voice was right into Blake’s ear, sent chills to his marrow.

“I was – _wrong_ , I should’ve never done that to you, I lost control…” his forehead was slowly leaning down and landed on Blake’s shoulder, “Thinking you might’ve done _it_ with someone else hurts me.”

Here, Blake was perplexed, “Sco –?”

“I didn’t – _couldn’t_ – think straight,” he repeated, “I regret it, I’m truly sorry, Blake.”

A minute of silence felt like an eternity. Schofield looked up, matched his eyes with Blake’s, and there he found endless ‘sorry’, imaginarily echoed inside his head. Still, Blake couldn’t help but wonder. Schofield being _hurt_ was beyond possibility. He was the straightest man Blake ever encountered. All he thought was to _survive_ , never to _live_ , for Schofield always rejected the idea to temporarily forget the bloodshed and madness by doing trivial things. Blake almost believed that this particular friend wasn’t capable of experiencing delicate feelings, being said happiness, furthermore passion or love,

But tonight, Schofield showed him his basic instinct: to _possess_.

The likelihood of Schofield, _perhaps_ , was fascinated with him – _oh_ , the idea itself made Blake want to throw himself out the window. God knew he laid his eyes on him since their first encounter since the older man taught him how to live in the trenches. Platonic as it might seem, surely, but then again, they were at war, and war dehumanized humans with its terror and dreadful abomination. Wasn’t it wrong finding peace in his fellow’s hand? To recall how their accord went from merely an associate into a stronger bond – it was just natural if Schofield wanted to touch him, to treasure him at all costs.

Blake’s hand moved reluctantly, brought Schofield’s tall, slender figure close, and embraced him in an awkward hug. Schofield didn’t expect it; he thought Blake would push him away, leave this room and he could spend all night blaming and cursing his stupid action. But Blake stayed. Blake was there, warm hands blanketing his slightly shivering shoulders. His palm stroked Schofield’s back, fingers tracing the curve of his spine, offering him comfort which he considered a redemption for what he had done. Two minutes passed when Schofield finally regained his sanity back and pulled away from Blake’s arms.

Lust and fury were replaced by remorse, and it shattered Blake’s heart,

They were so – _broken_.

But it was Blake, if not the most positive and optimistic one, “First, I forgive you,” he spoke in low tone followed by a petite smile, the indication of a truce, “Second, _no,_ I’ve never done practically anything sexual with those boys I hesitate, and scared, and you’re right, though I’m not as a hygiene freak as you are, I can’t imagine being touched by those hands, moreover – _whatever_ , you know,” a long sigh. Blake didn’t meet Schofield’s eyes this time. He looked down, searching for courage, before he sadly stared at those deep-blue optics, “Third, Sco; I can’t make you someone you’re not,” he could feel Schofield slowly reducing his brute force on him, “If – if I do _this_ with you, I might… Change you.”

“Change me into what, exactly?”

“You have a wife,” Blake hissed, “Two daughters.”

Schofield widened his eyes in disbelief, “Have I ever told you that?”

“No – but, many people say so; you always keep their photographs,” he glanced at Schofield’s tunic, laying around on the back of the chair near them, “The tin container, in your right breast pocket.”

Again, he blinked repeatedly, a snort of his nose, Schofield couldn’t believe the fact that Blake _believed_ in things he never reconfirmed, “She’s my sister,” he declared in a whisper, “Three years older than me – the only family I have left since we lost our parents, and those girls are her daughters. My nieces,” Schofield explained while enjoying how Blake’s mimic transformed, from baffled into ashamed into reassured, “You should’ve asked. And perhaps – things wouldn’t be this complicated.”

“I – I don’t know,” Blake lost his focus, “So, you’re not… _married_?”

“No wife,” Schofield ratified, “No woman is waiting to be my wife, either.”

Blake nodded, foolishly, “What the fuck I avoided you for?”

“The same question goes for me; I got jealous for nothing,” he inhaled a deep breath before facing his fellow soldier. The way they looked at each other gradually changed, it got warmer in each second, as Schofield filled the gaps between Blake’s fingers, put a gentle kiss on the back of the hand. _The worst distance between two people is a misunderstanding._ How he deeply comprehended it the hardest way.

“We’re both stupid after all.”

Schofield chuckled, and his small laughter was contagious. Blake did the same thing. Enjoying the rapid drop of the heavy atmosphere around them. They were surrounded by comfortable silence, Blake leaned while tangling Schofield in a big, bone-crushing hug. The taller man began to reciprocate by embracing him back; palms pressing Blake’s back, face buried in the crook of his neck. However, the innocence didn’t linger for too long – Schofield was lost in the scent of sweat and musk, and this time, Blake was relaxed beneath his touch. His eyes were looking for a pair of bright-blue. A smile carved on his lips as he found Blake, for there was no fear anymore, but bliss and contentment, a purity met dreamy eyes.

“Do you, perhaps, still want to do _it_?” Schofield asked, tenderly this time.

“Only if you _don’t_ force or attack me,” another inaudible ‘sorry’ escaped Schofield’s lips when Blake said that, “And I’ll just say this once,” Blake’s was so close on his ear, murmuring, “I don’t like pain.”

Schofield flushed, and how he was grateful for now Blake couldn’t see his face.

The next thing happened to him was Blake. _Blake_. How Blake whined when their lips softly touched, how Blake desperately clung onto him as they deepened the kiss, how Blake opened his mouth, giving Schofield better access to invade all of him. The bigger, calloused palm found their way inside Blake’s tunic, caressed the porcelain skin underneath, resulting in soft whimper against Schofield’s lips. _Oh_ \- if only he knew about _them_ sooner; Schofield was intoxicated, fully absorbed by Blake’s natural charm.

Nobody ever had done this to him. Not in the slightest idea,

And Blake, naively thought that kissing was a simple act of two pairs of lips battling for dominance, which Schofield proved him wrong. They unconsciously were building a connection, a stronger bond, for they, for once, dropped their guard down to zero, exposing their truest face, their vulnerabilities.

Blood rushing in his veins, the pleasure was drowning his logic; Blake was somewhat delighted by the fact that Schofield, the calmest person he ever met, could be this – _affected_ , by a kiss. Their breath turned into heavy panting. In a rush, Blake unbuttoned his tunic, which Schofield helped to set him free, and discarded their undergarments right after. Another moans eluded when their skin finally met, brushed against each other, scorching in every friction. His heart was frantically fluttered inside his ribcage and Schofield’s violent gasping didn’t help at all. Blake tugged his partner’s hair as he leaned down, leaving kisses and marks low enough their uniform would cover. The tingle of felicity and sting made his back arched, unwittingly gifted Schofield a breath-taking view, his tongue slid down further, _further_ ,

“For a second I thought you’re proposing,” Blake joked between his heaving when he saw Schofield fell on one knee, face straight in front of his groin, deft fingers did quick work on the younger’s belt.

Schofield smirked when he made it,

“If you’re into that.”

Everything that happened right after was an absolute blank. Blake recalled how his trembling legs collapsed eventually, he bent down, hugged Schofield’s neck and head, while his teeth sank in Schofield’s naked shoulder – and stars, _and stars._ Blake was grateful for sharing this intimate moment with his _best_ friend.

So, _what are we?_

Schofield was staring at the ceiling – recalling what just happened sent throbbing sensation to both his heart and his private; _Blake_ , oh, if it wasn’t Blake. The man himself was curling sweetly on his arm, head resting on Schofield’s naked chest, their lower bodies were hidden under a thin blanket. His long eyelashes slightly twitching in his sleep, which Schofield found fascinating, and he brought the smaller guy closer to him. He did feel bad for Blake after an intense session of thrusting and jerking and the desperate whimpering of his lover still echoed in his head – but he was glad for opening this delicate side of him to a man which already captured his attention from the start. His very last barrier had been torn down, and Blake had seen him in his most fragile moment, which he thought he’d hide forever.

Now, what were they? The question might be left unanswered, but when he felt Blake, sluggishly and groggily nuzzled his neck, as his chest rose and fell, _alive_ , Schofield thought that this was enough.

Blake was enough. _Them;_ was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> \ i-ˈnəf , ē-, ə- \  
> 1: in or to a degree or quantity that satisfies or that is sufficient or necessary for satisfaction: SUFFICIENTLY


End file.
